


Be Near Me

by Thimblerig



Category: Prince of Persia (Video Game 2008)
Genre: Banter, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, flirtation, foot porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 09:47:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/pseuds/Thimblerig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elika has never been one for shoes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be Near Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gallyrat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gallyrat/gifts).



**Be Near Me**

Elika has never been one for shoes.  Even as a child, when her maidservants tempted her with cunningly worked slippers of vermilion or indigo, worked with gold thread and hung with bells, she would take them politely, place them on a shelf in her latticed room, and then pace solemnly after her father, feet tanned and bare on the cool marble of his audience room, or leap nimbly from rock to craggy rock in the carefully sculpted wildness of his pleasure garden.  She was all hair and eyes in those days, and had a habit of hugging his legs when people she did not know were nearby.  He would place his hand, very gently, on the top of her head, and let her stand on his feet and cling.

Now after everything she goes barefoot still, crossing hot sand and rock with calloused soles.  The earth of the tainted lands aches at her feet but she will never block it out with shoes.  That sickness reminds her of why she is travelling through the desert with a dangerous rogue.

Even so, there are perils beyond the obvious of fighting monsters.  Elika sits awkwardly by the little campfire with one leg tucked up and scowls at the sole of her foot.  There was a running battle through prickly thorns earlier that day and now her only blouse is more ragged than ever and one of the thorns is still with her - sunk deep into the callous but broken off so it is hard to pull out.  She scrapes dubiously at the thorn with a thumbnail.

"Ow," she mutters.

"Can I help you with that?" the 'prince' asks.  He lounges comfortably on the other side of the fire in the light of the setting sun, head and throat still wrapped in his shabby scarfs, working with oil at the curved edge of a little hooked knife.

Elika raises an eyebrow.

"Consider it thanks for catching me when I fell off the cliff.  And off that giant statue's head.  And into the cistern."  He frowns.  "And pulling me out of the thorn bush."

"You're not touching me with that knife," she says.

"Please," says the 'prince', "I know where that's been," and vanishes the thing into his sash.  He cries "Falenka falapa!" and waves his hands.  Suddenly there is a long silver needle between his fingers.

"Alright then," Elika says.

The 'prince' plucks a burning twig from the fire and squints at it, holding the silver needle carefully in the bright flame until it singes black. He shuffles over until he is kneeling in front of the princess.  Elika leans back on her elbows and lets him scoop her foot onto his knee and he picks at the thorn carefully with the silver needle, his tongue stuck out to one side as he works.  It stings.  Finally the man gives a whoop as the thorn slides free.  A drop of blood wells up behind it and he wipes it away with his thumb.  "A sore wound, Princess."

"I've had worse," Elika says.  "'Prince'." 

His eyes gleam in the gathering darkness and he plucks a bottle of weapon oil from his sash, the same he'd used on his knife, and drops a little on her foot. His rough hands are very warm as he rubs her foot and ankle gently, working out the stiffness and aches. 

“That feels nice.” 

"Eh, I used to shack up with a courtesan who taught me how.  There's a lot a callow lad can learn from an older woman of generous temperament." 

"Did she teach you how to use your little needle?" Elika asks, a smile lurking at the edge of her mouth. 

"Ohhh yeeeeeahhh," the 'prince' says.  "She had all these.... beads, that kept falling off her costume when she danced and she made me sew them all back on after.  'Nimble fingers will take you far,' says she, and she was right on the money." 

"With the picking of locks and so-forth." 

"Yup."  The 'prince' works at her toes and winces in sympathy as the joints pop.  "She made me learn  _poetry_ , too.  A clever tongue and all that.  Lessee.  ...W _hen evening drunk on the blood of the sky turns to night, in one hand a balm of perfume, in the other a sword!"_  

 _"...sheathed in diamonds_ ," Elika finishes. 

The 'prince' gasps, eyes wide.  "You shacked up with a courtesan, too?!" 

She giggles.  "I read a book." 

He  _harrumphs_ , deep in his throat, and switches feet, shifting her bangle up so that he can work at the ankle. “You have good feet,” he says, “dancer's feet.” 

“Walker's feet.” 

“That too. She had this little garden,” he adds, “with high walls that blocked out the city, and a peach tree of her very own. She really liked the peaches, all fuzzy and warm from the sun and cool juice inside.” 

“Is your courtesan waiting in her garden for you, then? Is that what the gold was for?” 

“Cholera,” the thief says, simply. 

“I'm sorry.” 

He shrugs. 

Elika thinks,  _And when wine, as it is poured, is the sobbing_ _of children whom nothing will console... at that dark hour when night mourns..._ She says, “My father had a walled garden, too. There were rocks in it, but he didn't have any peaches.” 

“Were there plums? I love a good plum.” 

“There was a honey-locust tree. Wild almonds.  A stream with brown pebbles I could wade in.”

She tilts her head back and look up at the sky, dark now, with the scattered star-diamonds arching in an overhead river.  

" _When night laments or sings,_ " says the 'prince', " _or begins to dance..._ "

Elika continues, "...  _her steel-blue anklets ringing..."_   

She leaves out the next words,  _with grief_ , and leans forward then, touching the 'prince's hands, rough with work and slick with oil.  He stares at her, eyes a little too open, and then ducks his head, releasing her foot and drawing his hands away.  Elika shifts her foot and pokes him gently in the thigh.  She wiggles her toes.

“So I was thinking,” the 'prince' says.

Elika hums.

“Can I darn your shirt for you, pretty lady?”

She laughs.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title and the poetry quoted in the story are adapted from the poem “Paaz Raho”, or “Be Near Me”, by Faiz Ahmed Faiz, written in the 60s while the poet was in Moscow. ('Adapted' is a nice way of saying “dicked around with the words for my own benefit.”) 
> 
> Special thanks to DaisyNinjaGirl for beta-reading.


End file.
